


Mon Laurens.

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: And angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, French, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Well - Freeform, alex is an anxious lil dude, also sin, and fluff as well, but there is so much sin, english but french, historical fic, i love him though, if you've read all these tags you may as well read the story, it has a happy ending, its a war, john could speak french and i'll fight anyone who says he couldn't, lafayette is funny and i love him, tagging is hard, there's some anxiety and nightmares and things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A historical fic set some time during the war when John and Alexander were both aides-de-camps in Washington's military family. They are too adorable. Also John could speak french so that's fun and cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Laurens.

 

Cold permeated everything, the wool coat strung across his shoulders, the boots on his feet, and the trousers that covered his legs. Alexander was convinced he would never feel warm again. His breath puffed out in waves of warm air, he considered breathing on his hands but found his arms too stiff to move. Winter, a terrifying mistress, had them all in her grip; they were completely at her mercy. If she decided to send more snow, they couldn't move. If she decided to take more of their horses, they couldn't move. If she sent sickness, plague, hunger, famine or death, they couldn't move. And Winter, was unforgiving; one wrong move and they were all of them lost causes. 

 

Alexander focussed on the ground just in front of him, his dizziness preventing him from doing much else but trudge along behind George’s horse. He coughed. Once. Twice. Lafayette looked back at him, worry dancing in his eyes. Alex waved a hand and shook his head. John, next to him, slung an arm under his shoulders, propping him up. He leant in to the warmth of his fellow man, grateful that his friend knew what he needed. 

 

“I’ve got you,” John said, “don’t get sick.”

 

“I swear it,” Alexander huffed out a half laugh half cough. 

 

They walked on, the days were short and the nights long but they barely stopped to sleep. It seemed, to Alex, as though they were already dead and this was some form of hellish torture. Even Lafayette atop his horse seemed to struggle, goodness knows, the beast was in far worse shape. And yet, still they marched, an army reduced to nothing but scraps. Half men, half ghosts in the countryside as the snow came down making everything white. Winter didn't care that they were fighting for freedom. Winter didn't care for men and beast. 

 

Their rations were dwindling rapidly dissipating in to nothing. They were down to one week’s worth of food, less if the temperatures dropped. The men were shivering, bones rattling in their bodies. The horses were dying fast now, though it meant more stew and Alexander wasn't sorry. 

 

It was the hunger that got him. Alex had always been thin, used to subsisting on nothing, but here in the cold, his body couldn't take it. The last thing he knew was John’s arms clutching at him like an anchor and the ever present clutch of Winter, her breath speeding him into the dark like wind in the sails of a wandering bark. 

 

***

 

Alex came to on the back of a horse, Lafayette’s, he thought, judging by the colour and height. The first thing that hit him was the cold, how he hated it. He was used to blistering heat, though he had endured a few New York winters, he had endured them by a fireplace. It did serve to wake him up well enough, however.

 

“Monsieur Hamilton, tu es réveillé? C’est bon,” Lafayette said.

 

“Oui. Où est Laurens?” It was easier for Alex and Lafayette to speak French, to avoid listening ears.

 

“He’s with the General, up front, mon amie, they are talking about you,” Lafayette nodded his head in the direction of the front of the line.

 

“What are they saying?” Hamilton cast his eyes forwards as best he could.

 

“I am not involved with anything Laurens is doing. You’ll have to ask him yourself.” 

 

“Help me off this horse, then, no doubt you’ll want it back by now.”

 

“I cannot, mon amie, I am forbidden,” Lafayette shrugged his shoulders, huffing out a breath that rose like smoke in to the air.

 

“Gilbert, if you do not let me off this infernal beast of yours then I swear to all that is holy…” Alexander trailed off, realising his legs would likely not take his weight.

 

“Mon petit lion, my hands are tied, besides, like you could walk anywhere right now,” Lafayette smiled as he trudged through the snow. 

 

“Halt!” A command shouted down the ranks of men, in Washington’s voice. 

 

The entire army let out a breath of relief, they had some time to rest, _to eat._ Men stopped where they were, waiting for the next order with baited breath. Hundreds of thoughts prayed for the same thing.

 

“We camp here!” The shout in the same voice again echoed through the clearing they were in; the men very nearly cheered. 

 

“Deu merci!” Lafayette shouted in to the air, he swayed slightly on the spot, before pulling the horse to a fallen log and tying it up. 

 

“Now, please, I implore you, help me down off this thing,” Hamilton very nearly beat his fists against the horse’s flank. 

 

“I cannot, though I could get the man who can…” Lafayette trailed off, a conspiratorial grin on his face.

 

“Name your price,” Alex sighed.

 

“Trois pommes.”

 

“One.”

 

“Deux.”

 

“ _Une.”_

 

“S’il vous plait,” Lafayette’s eyes were wide, begging.

 

“Non, vous pouvez avoir un.”

 

“Bien,” Lafayette sighed as he walked off to get whomsoever put Alex in this mess. 

 

Alex was left there, hanging off a horse, all the blood rushing to his head. The only thing on his mind was getting down off the horse; it was a welcome distraction from the cold. He was lucky, Lafayette had parked the horse in copse of trees; none of the men could see the aides de camps hanging upside down off horse. 

 

“Laurens! You’re the reason I’m stuck like this?”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, I’m just here to get you down,” John smile completely gave him away, an ear splitting grin, all toothy, that made his cheeks bunch up like a chipmunk’s; brown eyes sparkled with mirth, as they took in the sight of Hamilton, red in the face. 

 

“Just get me down then, you ass,” Alex said, his ribs were now starting to ache from being leant on.

 

When he finally was down from the horse, boots once again up to the ankles in freezing cold snow, Alex found that he could not support his weight. His legs wobbled like pig fat underneath him; he had no hope of walking to where his and John’s tent had been set up. 

“Bugger,” he swore, spitting into the snow.

 

“Language!” Lafayette said, calmly coming to his left and pulling Alex’s arm around his shoulders.

 

“Come on, Hamilton, let’s get you somewhere warm,” John pulled Alex’s right arm around his shoulders and they started to walk, like some strange six legged beast. 

 

The tent was warmer than the outside, but not by much; their breath was still visible and their toes and fingers felt like they were going to fall off still. Alex was huddled in his blankets, shivering violently, pressed up against Laurens’ side. 

 

“You were speaking to Washington, about me?” Alex’s speech was slurred and slightly delirious, he was starting to run a fever, something that could be deadly.

 

“I was pleading with him to halt the march, not just for you, the other soldiers are dead on their feet too,” John said shrugging slightly so as not to jostle Alex too much.

 

“So it wasn’t some brave act of valour to protect your Hamilton?”

 

“ _My_ Hamilton? Alex, if you are anything, you are your own man,” John smiled, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkled, “I may have used the other soldiers to my own, and your, benefit.”

 

“So it _was_ a brave act of valour?” 

 

“Aye,” was all John said as he lay Alex down, throwing his own blanket on top of the other man, before standing and walking out of the tent; in to the frozen hell-scape they were in. 

 

***

 

Alexander Hamilton was a stubborn man, he did things on his terms; no one else’s and, dying was much the same. In short, death would not claim him until _he_ was ready; just then, freezing in a tent, in the middle of a war he was loosing, he was not ready. He lived, one gasping, rasping breath to the next. 

 

“You’re going to live, the doctor said you’re over the worst of it now,” John sat down by his bed, hands running through Alex’s hair.

 

“I heard,” was all Alex managed to cough out.

 

“Washington said that, as soon as you’re able to stand, we’re going to march. We’ll meet the British by next week,” John looked tired, black bags surrounded his eyes, they lacked the usual warmth and mirth. 

 

“So soon?”

 

“Aye, Friday, at the latest he said.”

 

“Damn,” Alex was getting used to only being able to say one or two words without coughing up a lung. 

 

“I don’t think this is a battle we’re going to win,” John scrubbed, the hand that was not buried in Alex’s hair, over his face.

 

“If there was anyone I’d spend my last week on this earth with, I would hope it were you,” it was the longest sentence Alex had spoken in weeks, though it was punctuated with coughs and spluttering, it was intelligible. 

 

“It is the same for me, I assure you,” John said, smiling, some warmth returning to the brown depths. 

 

“I am glad of it.”

 

***

 

Over the next few days, strength returned to Alex, he found himself able to walk, to talk and breath without collapsing. Washington observed his recovery with a small smile. John was by his side nearly every day, helping him to walk, carrying his things, forcing him to sleep and eat. When John was absent, he felt cold on the small of his back in the spot John’s hand normally lay; it was not a feeling he liked and he willed John to come back soon. He always did, as though he could hear Alex cry out for him mentally. 

 

“Here are the three apples, I owed you,” Alex said, dropping the fruit on Lafayette’s bed.

 

“Merci, mon amie,” Lafayette smiled and patted the bed for Alex to sit down, “it has been too long since we last spoke freely,” he said, still in French.

 

“Oui,” Alex grinned and sat, he had nowhere he needed to be, not urgently anyway.

 

“Tell me about Laurens, you are close, non?” Lafayette’s eyes glistened knowingly, Alex had to wonder if the man could read minds; he knew what Lafayette wanted to hear, though he could not bring himself to say it. 

 

“Oui, Laurens and I are near brothers,” Alex nodded, thinking himself to be safe with that answer.

 

“Oh, brothers? Or is there not some other kind of love, you share with him?”

 

“Non, mon amie, you are mistaken,” Alex dodged and ducked under Lafayette’s probing.

 

“I am?”

 

“Oui, oui mon amie,” Alex blushed.

 

“Your mouth is telling me one thing, though your eyes speak a thousand others,” Lafayette placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder.

 

“It could never be.”

 

“Why ever not?”

 

“We’d be hanged, for sodomy,” Alex smiled, though this time there was no humour in it. 

 

“Not if you are clever, and, mon petit lion, you are very clever.” 

 

“C’est impossible,” Alex hung his head.

 

“Non, nothing is impossible, mon amie. There’s nothing your mind can’t do.” 

 

“Merci, mon amie, I’ll figure it out.”

 

“Oui you will, I will be by your side when you do.”

 

“Merci, merci, merci,” Alex kissed his friend on the cheek, hoping that his lips were not too dry and chapped. 

 

***

 

Days passed, the heady rush of preparing for battle hung in the air heavier than the snow that fell from the heavens. Alexander was rushed off his feet, though it did little to distract him from the broiling pit of nerves in his stomach. He ran back and forward between each officer’s tent, writing hurriedly, his fingers covered in ink stains; he wiped them on his trousers. 

“Alex, you have blue on your trousers,” John said pointing to the blue stains that covered the tan material. 

 

“Huh? Oh yeah, that, I knew that,” Alex hummed nervously, unsure over his body, rocking on the balls of his feet.

 

“Are, are you quite alright?”

 

“I am just fine, thanks,” Alex said, he had started to pace up and down the tent now. 

 

“Are you scared?” John sat on the camp bed, his knees knocking together as he watched Alex pace. 

 

“Oh, no, not at all. I mean we’ll be running head first in to men with guns this time tomorrow. I am not at all scared.”

 

“I’m scared too,” Laurens said.

 

Alex came to a halt and sat next to him, their backs against the canvas, their shoulders brushing. 

 

“We could die,” Alex whispered. 

 

“I’m trying not to think about that,” John smiled shakily

 

“If I die, will you find my body? Will you bury me? I don’t have any family, there would be no one else to pay for my funeral,” Alex said. 

 

“You have no family?” John looked at him, “you never told me.”

 

“My father left when I was ten years old, my mother died two years later. I haven’t spoken to my brother in years,” Alex grimaced. 

 

“I’m sorry-“

 

“No, its okay, you’re my family now,” Alex smiled, properly leaning into Laurens a touch more. 

 

“I’m glad you think about me that way. It is an honour,” John placed his hand on his heart in mock drama. 

 

The candle they had burning on a small crate was flickering down to the wick. The wax was spilling out on to the table. Outside, an owl was hooting, if Alex listened hard enough he thought he could hear the rustle of wings. The trees whispered, their branches spreading messages in a tongue Alex could not understand, an old song for a long night. 

 

“I love you, frère de mon coeur,” Alex murmured. 

 

“And I, you,” John patted his hair, Alex sighed, “what is it?”

 

“Lost in thought,” he said, his voice low.

 

They stayed like that, huddled against each other, though they had nothing worked out they both knew if someone came in they’d say it was for warmth. It was the truth, partly at least. For Alex though, it held a greater meaning, for Alex it meant love and comfort. Those were not things he was used to. 

 

“I find myself staring death in the face, and yet I am not content,” Alex, unsurprisingly, broke the silence first, it had settled like snow around them.

 

“Why so?” 

 

“I have found my life to be startlingly devoid of love; love, I believe is the single most important emotion.”

 

“Love between a man and a woman?” John asked, head tilted to the side slightly. 

 

“I am not decided yet,” Alex said.

 

“And how would you decide?” John was looking at Alex now, in the eyes, Alex vowed to one day count all of the freckles that adorned his face. He made up his mind to kiss them all too, to brush his lips along where an angel had long ago. 

 

“Mon Laurens, je ne sais comment.” 

 

 

***

 

Battle. Heady. Frantic. Frightening. Loud. Bloody. It screamed around Alex, roaring in his ear with a mixture of canon and blood that was being pumped round his body. He had lost sight of Laurens long ago, Lafayette had been invisible to him for longer. He clutched his musket, his one anchor to this life, shooting all he could. A horse next to him reared his rider off, the man fell, and was lost to the pile of bodies that had been steadily growing. It did not help that Alex could no longer feel his fingers. He gazed around the field, they were winning, but only just. The red coats were outnumbered, but they head reinforcements to call; where they had none at all. 

 

The field was stained red. The crows descended on them. The battle was over but Alex could not find Laurens. Lafayette was still missing; Alex hoped someone would heal the ache in his heart. 

 

“Mon lion!” The cry came from across the field. 

 

“Lafayette, dieu merci!” Alex embraced his friend, feeling the other’s breaths against his chest. 

 

“Mais, où est votre Laurens?” 

 

“Je ne sais pas,” Alex sighed, burying his face into Lafayette’s shoulder. 

 

“Then we will find him,” Lafayette said, pulling Alex around the field by his arm.

 

They found Laurens, alone in a puddle of blood. Alex cried out, but when they got closer they realised the blood could not be his alone. There was no bullet wound to be seen, no tell tale rip in John’s clothes, just a gash on his forehead and scrapes here and there were visible on his skin. 

 

“Mes amies, mes amies, que vous êtes en vie, dieu merci tu es vivant, dieu merci, dieu merci,” Alex broke down, kneeling on the ground, his face on John’s chest. 

 

“We should get him back to camp, come mon petit lion,” Lafayette touched Alex’s shoulders, making him stand. 

 

The frenchman picked Laurens up in his arms and carried him bridal style back to the encampment. The snow was covered in red blotches, they stood out against the white with terrifying finality. Alex looked at them, and looked at Laurens, still in Lafayette’s arms, and thought of the void. 

 

***

 

Like most things, Laurens got better. The gash in his forehead healed, leaving an ugly scar. The scrapes and bruises faded from his skin entirely, leaving nothing but vague aches in their place. It was revealed that Laurens had fractured his ankle; he still walked with a little bit of a limp, but that too, in time, would heal. What was not healing was the ache in Alex’s heart. The constant reminder of what could have been. In his dreams he saw Laurens dead, next to his mother, cold grey eyes started back at him; their faces soft and pudgy and their skin crawling with maggots. 

 

Right now, however, he was supposed to be writing a letter to congress, begging them to send more horses. Alex couldn't concentrate, his fingers were shaking; there was a storm raging outside. Thunder was rolling out across the horizon, lighting flashing in the sky; Alex had always had a problem with storms, but now it was increased ten fold. He remembered the gunshots, the smoke, the confusion and the desperation he had felt. The fountain pen’s nib snapped. 

 

“Goddamn.”

 

“Alex?” John called from the flap of the tent. 

 

“I’m here,” Alex answered, hurriedly washing the ink off his fingers. 

 

“You need to relax.”

 

“I _need_ to finish this letter,” Alex huffed. 

 

“You need to stop,” John laughed. 

 

“Ugh,” Alex banged his forehead on the desk. 

 

John picked him up by the shoulders and put him on the bed. Alex turned on to his back and looked at John, drowning in those whiskey depths. 

 

“You aren’t sleeping.”  
  
“I cannot,” Alex whispered.

 

“Why so?” John’s brows furrowed, his mouth contorted in to a worried line. 

 

“Every time I do, I see you, dead,” a blush forced its way on to his cheeks. 

 

“You… you see me?”

 

“Oui, mon coeur.” 

 

“I am not dead,” John pushed his fingers into Alex’s hair, combing methodically through the dark locks. 

 

“I know, dieu merci.” 

 

“I am here, I am alive,” John whispered. 

 

“Merci, merci,” Alex cried, “I do not know what I would do if you had died on that field.” 

 

“I did not.”

 

John pushed their camp beds together that night, they slept holding hands. Anchoring each other to the world, sharing warmth and love. It was the first night, in a long while, Alex slept well. 

 

***

 

They woke, bleary eyed and foggy. Alex was coming to with a realisation that someone was pressed up against his back. Alex then realised, not five minutes after, that John Laurens was pressed against his back. It also took Alex another five minutes to realise that he quite liked John Laurens being pressed against his back. It was warm, warmer than Alex remembered it being in months; he snuggled into the warmth, enjoying the arms that were wrapped around him. 

 

“Are you awake?” John asked, his voice hoarse from sleep. 

 

“Yes.” Alex whispered.

 

“Is this okay?”

 

“More than,” he mumbled. 

 

“…Okay…” John said. 

 

 

Alex turned around in John’s arms, to look at his face; what he saw made him smile. John wore a happy, puppy like grin; his cheeks like a chipmunks, his eyes more alive than they had been in weeks. Alex buried his face in John’s chest, snuggling close to where he could hear the other’s heart clearly. It reminded Alex that John was still alive. 

 

“I love you,” Alex muttered. 

 

“And I, you,” John said into the top of Alex’s hair. 

 

“No, I _love_ you.”

 

“How could you think that I would not love you?” John chuckled.

 

“But… but sodomy?” Alex was confused, he hadn’t expected john to love him back.

 

“I don’t care, I love you, if I could I would shout it from the roof tops.” 

 

Alex tilted his head up, to meet John’s eyes, and in them he sees all the love and desire contained in their hazel depths. He had not dreamt of anyone loving him; had thought himself unlovable, now he can see that John proves this theory of his wrong. His John.

 

“Mon Laurens, mon coeur, mon cher, mon amour, ma vie,” he whispered against the other’s lips.

 

“Tout cela et plus,” it was John who connected their lips. Seeking Alex’s out in the cold of their tent, John’s lips were pillowy soft. Dry but not chapped, they were warm, so warm; Alex pressed his against them harder and John opened his mouth. His Laurens traced his tongue against Alex’s bottom lip; Alex opened his mouth obligingly, letting Laurens in. Their noses were pressed together, tucked in at each side, brushing occasionally but not bumping in to one another. They moved in sync so much, that this seemed to be just an extension of what they were already doing.

 

Alex was manoeuvred so he rested under John, the other’s weight pressing him into the canvas bed. John’s hands roamed up and down Alex’s body; still they did not break apart, only for short, snatched breaths. The blankets still covered them but there was no way to pretend they were doing this just for warmth, not anymore.Alex found, that, now he didn't think he could be cold ever again, not when this moment was seared in to his memory. John’s hands. John’s touch, burnt into the skin of his body, there forever. 

 

“Mon Laurens,” Alex said as he tilted his head to the side to allow John better access to his neck, gasping when the other bit down on the join light grazing his skin with his teeth. 

 

John kissed and bit his way towards Alex’s stomach, each touch catapulting feelings and emotions in to existence. John left his mark all the way down to the small trail of dark hair above the button to Alex’s breaches. 

“You are going to need to wear your cravat a little higher tomorrow, mon Alexander,” John said, punctuated by kisses. 

 

“Merde,” Alex muttered, but it was cut off by a gasp and his eyes rolling in to the back of his head. 

**Author's Note:**

> Is my French ok? Its my third language after Spanish and English so idk... tell me? I tried not to use google translate so much... Also I am a slut for feedback and kudos so they are very much appreciated!!


End file.
